6IPT  OP    ' 

ROBEPH~ 

BEIPHER. 


KANCISCA 
BEINA 


BELCHER 

I/I,  <  6 


Jfrancteca 


iDebicatrt!  to 


Cttp  of 


OF   THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


-" 


Jfranctsica  Eetna 


BY 


AMELIA  WOODWARD  TRUESDELL 

Author   of  "  A   California   Pilgrimage  among  the  Old  Mission*  '' 
"  La  Parra  Grande,  a  Legend  of  the  Santa 
Barbara  Grape  Vine" 


BOSTON:    RICHARD    G.    BADGER 
orfja 

1908 


BELCHER 

-c 

Copyright,  1907,  by  Amelia  W.  Truesdell 
All  Rights  Reserved 


Original  Illustrations  by  Maynard  Dixon 


Drawings  by  Leslie  Hunter  and  Herbert  Igoe,  reproduced  by  courtesy 
of  Sunset  Magazine,  San  Francisco 

Art  Photographs  by  Frances  Reid  McCulloch 


The  Gorham  Press,  Boston,  U.  S.  A. 


Contents! 

PAGE 

Francisca  Reina       ........  7 

Francisca  Dolorosa     .                .          .          .          .          .          .  1 1 

Francisca  Madre     .          .          .          .          .          .          .  15 

Let  Us  Forget 19 

Franciscans  Thanksgiving           .....  21 

How  We  Went  out 24 

Francisca  Diligente     ........  32 

The  Simple  Life 

On  Sidewalks    ........  34 

In  Tents 38 

In  Clubs 38 

The   Reason  Why    .          .          .          .          .          .          .  42 

Francisca  Gloriosa                       ......  44 


193779 


Francisca  Reina 


FRANCISCA  REINA 

A  stricken  queen,  but  still  a  queei  of  queens, 

She  sat  upon  the  sloping  of  her  hills 

Where  wreck  and  fire  had  danced  the  dance  of  death. 

Her  forehead  bowed  upon  her  knees  she  sat. 
An  instant  stunned  by  her  transcendant  woe. 
The  smoke  still  burnt  her  eyelids,  and  her  throat 
Quivered  with  pungent  acids  of  the  flame. 


"  Where  wreck  and  fire  had 
danced  the  dance  of  death" 

The  acrid  vapors  of  the  steaming  muck 
Were  in  her  nostrils  and  her  slackened  breath 
Was  spent  through  ashes  on  her  bleeding  lips. 

Awhile  all  paralyzed,  then  slow  her  head 

Upraised.     Her  eyes  were  dim.     She  saw  through  mists 

The  vista  of  her  hills  all  gray  and  still. 

When  would  they  laugh  again  ?     Ten  thousand  homes 

Had  burnt  their  hearthstones  into  monuments 

For  her  as  dead. 

7 


FRANCISCA  REINA 


"  7  he  vista  of  her  hills  .    .    .  when  would  they  laugh  again" 

That  cup  unveiled  she  saw 

Which  fate  has  ready  for  the  desolate. 

The  black  wine  of  despair  each  hour  new  pressed 
From  envy  of  the  nether  gods.     This  cup, 
Scorned  lightly  in  her  pride,  he  thrust  at  her 
With  coward  jeers:  "Drink,  drink,  thou  boastful  dame. 
Dost  mock  it  now  ?     There's  nothing  more  for  thee." 
Once  glance!     The  vision  came!     Her  spirit's  light 
Broke  forth  in  aureole  about  her  head  — 
Glory  immortal  of  a  risen  soul. 

Upright  she  stood.     Hot  cinders  burnt  her  feet  — 
She  knew  it  not.     With  fingers  tense,  the  cup 
She  seized  and,  like  one  born  to  her  own  house, 
That  black  wine  of  despair,  she  tossed  aloft 
Upon  the  embers  and  the  blistering  rocks. 


FRANCISCA  REINA 

"  'Tis  net  fcr  me,  a  queen,  this  dastard  draught, 
For  lo!     They  come  —  my  children  from  the  sea 
Of  fire  —  each  man  a  king.     Their  garments  smoke. 
Their  brows  deep  seamed  but  bright  with  hope.     Their  eyes 
Are  brave,  their  faces  set  to  conquer  death. 
My  sons!     my  sons!"     With  touch  of  its  old  joy 
Her  voice  rang  out  among  the  blackened  tombs. 
"  Come  near,  ye  bruised  ones.     Unflinching  hearts, 
Together  make  we  sacrificial  vows 
With  orisons  unto  the  rising  sun.' 


i  en  thousand  homes  had  burnt  their  hearthstones  into  monuments  for  her  as  dead 


Francisco  Dolorosa 


FRANCISCA  DOLOROSA 

Fore-doomed  the  horror  of  the  age  to  bear, 

By  Fate  hand-gripped,  we  went  forth  from  our  homes. 

From  mornings  to  the  ending  days  we  fared, 

And  from  three  midnights  to  their  dawns  again 

From  place  to  place;  the  while,  a  demon  crazed. 

Destruction  followed  in  a  pact  with  Death. 

And  yet  a  song  was  on  our  lips.     We  smiled 

Into  each  other's  eyes  in  comradeship. 

The  great  heart  of  humanity  awoke. 

With  throbs  which  stilled  the  consciousness  of  SELF. 

And  we  went  forth  to  night  that  was  as  day, 
To  day  that  was  as  night,  for  time  was  not. 
The  parrot  clinging  to  his  master's  sleeve 
Forgot  his  chattering.     The  songless  birds 
Shivered  upon  the  perch.     Dumb  creature's  eyes 
Were  pleading  unto  us.     Go  forth?     Whither? 
To  pavements  choked  with  people  dazed  by  shock, 
Smoke-strangled,  bent  beneath  their  burdened  backs, 
Half  dumb  and  goblin-like  in  flame-lit  smoke; 
Streets  harsh  with  scrapings  of  a  hasty  flight, 
Ashriek  with  dragging  things  that  blocked  our  feet. 
The  mountains  called  and  from  the  docks  the  cry, 
"This  way  for  life!     To  save  your  life,  this  way." 
For  hours,  the  sea,  far  out,  had  roared  its  pain. 

But  new,  the  bay,  unmindful  cf  the  wounds 
Of  Mother  Earth,  said, "  Come,  I  know  a  shore 
Of  rest:  "and  thousands  followed  it  to  peace, 
On  waves  resplendent  in  a  world  of  fire, — 
The  light  from  an  Immortal's  flaming  nest. 

We  smelled  the  smoke  of  things  revered.     Our  mouths 

Were  bitter  with  the  char  of  household  gods. 

We  trod  the  cinders  from  the  city's  heart, 

Our  city,  loved  as  hearthstones  are.     Whither  ? 

The  parks!     A  woman's  cry.     There  stood  strong  men 

Shoulder  to  shoulder,  their  bread  backs  a  wall 

Arc  und  one  stricken  ere  her  time,  her  bed 

The  street.     Aye,  aye,  men's  backs  a  hasty  wall 

To  guard  that  moment  holy,  from  the  crowd. 

Instinct  cf  manhood  unto  motherhood; 

O  Ged !     The  glory  and  the  pain  of  it ! 

The  gentleness  ef  those  rough  hands  which  here 

To  sheltering  that  prostrate  form!     O  face 

Newborn,  adust  with  ashes  cf  its  home! 

ii 


12  FRANCISCA  DOLOROSA 

Whither  ?     Unto  the  hills  still  green  with  spring  ? 
The  slender  fingers  of  a  jewelled  dame 
Spread  out  her  fluffy  down  in  silken  sheath, 
Beneath  the  forehead  of  a  negro  child. 
Her  store  cf  dainties  hasty  seized,  she  brake 
As  bread  unto  God's  homeless  multitude; 
And  seemed  it  to  increase,  as  did  the  loaves 
Of  Him  who  fed  the  crowds  in  Galilee. 

While' tongues  of  dogs  unknown  licked  up  the  crumbs 
From  off  our  hands  in  brotherhood  of  woe. 

The  auto  of  the  millionaire  became 

A  thing  of  life,  the  while  the  man's  own  hands 

Were  black  with  gathering  waifs  and  strays.     This  car 

Was  Gcd's  swift  messenger  unto  the  maimed. 

It  flew  filled  with  sweet  faces  of  the  nuns 

To  minister  beside  the  narrow  cot; 

With  the  red  crosses  of  the  brotherhood 

Aglow,  it  flew  unto  the  service  field 

Of  skill  and  love;  then  black  with  priestly  robes 

Which  held  within  the  sacred  vest,  the  sealed 

Viaticum  to  cheer  the  way  to  death. 

Piled  with  the  fallen  and  the  halt  it  flew; 

Then  comfcrt-nigh  for  hungry,  shivering  forms. 

This  pleasure  thing  built  for  the  rich  man's  toy! 

And  thus  unto  the  sand  dunes  and  the  tides 

We  fled,  alone  or  in  some  brother's  care; 

And  that  red  glare  beat  on  us  yet  for  days 

Till  hearts  grew  strong  with  giving  others  cheer. 

No  strangers  then !     All  races  were  akin 

By  God's  one  fatherhood  to  all.     A  man 

Was  but  a  man  unto  a  man.     Enough! 

One  brand  of  pain  was  on  us  all.     I  knew 

My  sister  by  the  grime  upon  her  hands. 

My  mother!     Was  not  she  that  babbling  one 

Who  tcttered  frcm  the  doorway  of  her  shack 

With  smoking  garments  prone  upon  my  feet  ? 

Net  mine  ?     Those  children  dragging  at  my  skirts  ? 

My  brother  frcm  the  hill  of  palaces, 

His  scftened  features  gray  with  cinder  dust 

Of  mansions,  now  forgetting  his  own  loss, 

Tender  as  to  the  firstborn  of  his  house, — 

He  wraps  within  his  coat  of  sable  warmth 

The  sleeping  child  he  found  upon  the  street. 

The  hcly  joy  of  such  a  fellowship! 

The  ar  gels  must  have  wept  and  worshipped  Gcd. 


FRANCISCA  DOLOROSA 


Thou  city  of  our  hearts!     With  that  first  rage 
Of  passion  primitive  we  loved,  we  loved, 
Yet  helpless  saw  thee  struggle,  gasp  and  fall. 
What  meant  the  song  upon  our  lips  ?     The  uplift 
Of  shock  ?     The  nervous  power  of  pain  supreme  ? 
Nay,  nay!     The  angel  hands  were  blinding  us, 
Lest  knowing  we  go  mad  before  the  chrism 
Of  hope,  their  fingers  touched  upon  our  eyes. 
The  solemn  joy  of  newborn  faith  in  life, 
And  faith  born  of  catastrophe  is  strength. 
Extremity  like  thine  revealed  to  us 
That  thou  wert  of  God's  plan  unto  the  world 
To  civilize.     We  saw  that  thou  must  rise 
In  evolution  of  His  purposes 
From  thy  baptism  of  fire  to  higher  life. 
Thus  meant  the  song  unconscious  on  our  lips; 
A  Resurrexit  in  a  Requiem  Chant. 


[ 

i 


"But  in  Fate's  challenge  finus  its  best" 


FRANCISCA  MADRE 

New  Tear,  1907 

What  cheer,  Francisco  Madre,  what  of  cheer 

For  this,  the  world's  expectant  year  ? 

Struggles  uncanny  hast  thou  now 

While  still  upon  thy  cheek  the  tear. 

The  laborer's  sweat  is  on  thy  brow; 

Thy  hands  have  changed  the  timbrels  for  the  spade; 

Thy  feet  that  danced  go  firm  and  unafraid. 

With  front  of  light  thou  fa  rest  to  and  fro 

Among  a  city  full 

Of  wrecks,  each  stone  a  shrine  to  memory  dear. 


.    1$ 


i6 


FRANCISCA  MADRE 


"  Travail  of  tasks  gigantic  must  o'erfill  thy  soul" 


When  smites  all  ruthlessly  upon  thy  face 

The  crime  of  blood,  while  from  thy  noble  place 

Greed's  hooked  fingers  reach  to  thy  disgrace. 

With  such  unnatural  foe 

Thy  courage  is  more  pitiful 

Than  thy  first  woe. 

O  life  that  riots  in  the  Western  breast! 
Despair  it  knows  not,  no,  nor  rest, 
But  in  Fate's  challenge  finds  its  best. 
Through  all  the  pulses  of  thy  throbbing  mart, 
It  thrills  thee,  city  of  the  bleeding  heart; 
Thrills  thee  with  promise  of  the  coming  year. 

Francisca  of  our  love,  what  cheer  ? 

On  every  side  we  hear 

The  hammer  and  the  chisel  ply, 

And  creaking  cf  the  wains  that  thrust  us  by. 

The  carven  stone  had  been  thy  creed, 

But  to  thy  children's  sudden  need 

Thou  oflferest  with  averted  eye 

A  sheath  of  iron  and  wood; 


FRANCISCA  MADRE 

They  answer  through  a  stifled  cry, 

"Yea,  mother,  this  is  good!" 

And  pledge  thee  for  a  glad  New  Year. 

Francisca,  watcher  of  the  night,  what  cheer  ? 

By  day,  thcu  paintest  in  the  future's  glow, 

The  fair  dream  city  which  the  world  shall  know. 

But  when  thou  gazest  through  the  chill 

Of  night  from  hill  to  blackened  hill, 

Travail  of  tasks  gigantic,  must  o'erfill 

Thy  soul.     'Tis  then  thou  shudderest  with  the  pain 

Of  Memory  and  Hope  in  mortal  strain. 

But  Hope,  the  strong  twin-sister  of  the  Dawn, 

Forever  ycung,  smiles  with  each  rising  sun 

Upon  the  yet  wreck-jagged  slopes,  and  lo! 

The  broken  hearthstones  flush  in  rosy  glow, 

Above  ne\\  homes  that  nestle  at  thy  feet, 

Like  the  swift-lighted  gulls  of  gray.     And  thou, 

Dear  mother,  liftest  thy  rejoicing  brow, 

As  the  fleet-footed  moments  run, 

Foreshadowed  splendors  of  the  year  to  greet. 

Thou  hast  rich  welcome  for  the  hovering  Year 

That  poises  on  thy  threshold  half  in  fear. 

There's  a  cheer,  Francisca  Madre,  THERE  is  CHEER. 


•7 


Memory  and  Hope  in  mortal  strain" 


"  Thou  hast  rich  welcome  for  the  holering  Year 
That  poises  on  thy  threshold  half  in  fear. 
There's  a  cheer,  Francisca  Madre,  there  is  cheer." 


Church  of  the  Advent 


LET  US  FORGET 

The  horror  which  surpassed  all  telling; 
The  memories  still  welling,  welling, 

—  Exhaustless  fountain  of  our  pain  - 

Let  us  forget. 

The  nights  that  made  us  gray  ere  mornings, 
The  desolation  of  those  dawnings, 

Whose  like,  no  suns  of  fire-red  stain 
Had  seen  before  nor  may  again, 
Let  us  forget. 

The  losses  which  have  made  us  brothers; 
The  sufferings,  our  own  and  others, 

E'en  wrecking  of  a  life's  long  toil, 

Let  us  forget. 

Lest  we  grow  hard  and  unforgiving, 
Lest  we  lose  that  great  joy  of  living  — 

The  might  to  wrest  from  out  the  soil 
The  wealth  that  is  our  rightful  spoil, 
Let  us  forget. 


20 


LET  US  FORGET 

Lest  we  get  low  and  weary-hearted 
Thinking  of  old  and  new  thus  parted 

— A  gulf  whose  bridge  is  hope  alone  — 

Let  us  forget. 

Let  us  look  onward  to  the  morrows; 
As  monuments  o'er  buried  sorrows 

Piling  the  best  the  world  has  known 
Of  iron  strength  and  carven  stone, 

Let  us  forget; 
Lord  God!     Help  us  forget. 


Old  Mission  Dolores 


With  a  purpose  as  given  our  fathers  who  builded  good  cities  and  true 


FRANCISCA'S  THANKSGIVING 

When  the  hordes  of  barbarian  Persians 

Laid  the  beauty  of  Athens  in  waste, 

With  her  sons  came  their  women  and  children 

Making  vows  to  the  gods,  and  in  haste 

Bearing  stones  for  the  walls  and  the  turrets, 

Till  a  city  arose  at  whose  shrine 

The  centuries  kneeled  in  unlading 

Their  argosies'  purple  and  wine 

Then  ^Eschylus,  reading  his  vision, 

Sang  the  song  of  the  city's  new  morn; 

Myron  felt  for  the  soul  of  the  marble 

Which  in  Phidias  later  was  born. 

By  a  power  more  dread  than  an  army 

Destruction  has  come  to  our  gates, 

And  it  struck  with  a  terror  and  blindness 

Which  tossed  us  like  toys  of  the  Fates. 


21 


22 


FRANCISCA'S  THANKSGIVING 


Pioneer  Monument 


But  give  thanks  that  man's  greatest  is  left  us, 

The  strength  and  the  courage  to  do, 

A  purpose  as  grim  as  our  fathers' 

Who  builded  good  cities  and  true. 

Give  thanks  for  the  grain's  golden  harvest, 

Those  placers  of  wind-rippled  fields; 

For  the  opened  storehouse  of  the  mountains 

Where  each  year  its  new  treasure  up-yields. 

True  children  of  Argonauts  are  we 

And  our  struggles  to  theirs  are  akin; 

Though  the  trials  be  hosts  like  the  Persians 

An  Athenian  valor  shall  win. 

Then  Art  shall  arise  from  the  ashes 

An  immortal  unhurt  by  her  scars; 


FRANCISCA'S  THANKSGIVING 

And  a  voice  shall  be  heard  in  the  ruins 
With  a  song  that  shall  quicken  the  stars. 
As  with  vows,  the  builders  of  Athens 
Made  a  shrine  of  each  wall  they  upraised, 
So  may  we  make  our  city  a  temple 
To  the  God  whom  our  fathers  praised. 

Then  spread  we  the  feast  of  Thanksgiving 
With  a  hymn  for  the  days  of  old; 
Cheers  shall  ring  for  the  arduous  Present 
And  the  triumphs  the  Future  shall  hold. 


Monument  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  in  Portsmouth  Square 


HOW  WE  WENT  OUT 

She  wore  five  skirts,  he  wore  two  hats, 

He  led  the  dog;,  she  carried  cats; 

A  blanket,  soldierwise,  about 

Each  waist  was  coiled,  they  both  were  stout. 

He  had  a  bundle  on  his  back 

And  dragged  a  trunk  along  the  track. 

She  bore  a  hat  box  and  a  grip; 

The  squirming  kittens  made  her  trip, 

Those  catlings  yowled  beneath  her  weight; 

He  picked  her  up  and  swore  at  Fate. 

In  baleful  glare  of  reddish  light, 

They  knew  not  were  it  day  or  night  — 

They  plodded  towards  the  Golden  Gate, 

Then  sat  upon  their  trunk  to  wait. 

Was  this  the  end  or  should  they  go 

Still  farther  to  the  "Westward  Ho!" 


They  found  a  waif  fast  strapped  on  skates 

Crying  by  the  Presidio  gates; 

He'd  lost  his  pa  and  on  his  head, 

Top-heavy,  bore  the  family  bed. 

She  cheered  him  with  a  mother  squeeze, 

And  fed  him  of  the  bread  and  cheese 

With  other  pets  around  their  knees. 


HOW  WE  WENT  OUT 


The  flames  had  reached  a  hotel  dome! 

A  lady  rich  in  mines  of  Nome 

Rushed  down  the  stairs  to  find  the  street, 

Rolling  her  packs  before  her  feet. 

Her  latest  hat  she  had  assumed 

To  save  its  owlet,  newly  plumed. 

A  skirt  above  her  robe  de  nutt 

Was  all  the  dress  that  one  could  see; 

Her  Paris  gowns  of  great  expense 

Were  not  just  then  in  evidence 

Save  by  a  cuff  or  bit  of  lace 

Exuding  from  a  pillow  case. 

She  dragged  her  bundles  in  this  plight, 

Half  consciously  she  felt  them  light; 

One  backward  glance!     A  wretched  wrack 

Of  nameless  garments  marked  her  track. 

A  rubber  bag  —  the  long-necked  kind, 

Was  crawling  like  a  worm  behind. 

A  passer  cried  —  or  was  it  craze  ?  — 

"Madam,  your  hat  is  all  ablaze." 

She  dashed  it  down  upon  the  pave, 

That  bird  must  go  her  life  to  save. 

One  back   despairing  look  she  cast, 

The  sight  will  haunt  her  to  the  last; 

That  owl's  glass  eyes  in  vengeful  ire 

Glared  at  her  from  a  wreath  of  fire. 

A  forty-niner,  camped  in  town, 

Had  watched  the  city  burning  down; 

The  dignity  of  one  tiled  hat 

He'd  reached  through  suffering,  and  that 

To  save,  he'd  make  a  sacrifice, 

And  so  he  wore  it;  awful  price! 


An  outgrown  baby  cart  he  found, 

And  started  prospecting  new  ground, 

Unconsciously  he  took  the  word 

Of  the  old  slogan,  long  unheard 

Since  he  went  broke  upon  the  Trust; 

"  Pardner,  we'll  make  Twin  Peaks  or  bust." 


26  HOW  WE  WENT  OUT 

A  house  by  hotel-swelldom  kept. 

Italian  virtuosos  slept 

Far  up  and  dreamed  of  Italy. 

Vendettas  of  dear  Sicily, 

Vesuvius  and  her  latest  tricks; 

When  suddenly  the  rattling  bricks 

Made  nightmare  of  the  passing  dream; 

Vesuvius,  still  the  latest  theme, 

Came  first  to  mind,  as  down  the  stair 

They  rushed  upon  the  facing  square; 

Cried  one  with  vast  dramatic  air, 

Arms  waving  wildly  in  despair, 

"O  thou,  Vesuvius,  my  own! 

A  shake  like  this  thou  ne'er  hast  known! 

Why  did  I  leave  my  mountain  thus  ? 

Heart  of  my  heart,  Vesuvius! 

Oh,  give  me  my  Vesuvius!" 

This  tragic  artist  wore  the  while 

Pajamas  of  the  latest  style. 

What  man,  think  you,  it  was  would  do  so  ? 

His  name  ?     The  rhyme  demands  Caruso  ? 

In  garments  anything  but  fresh, 
She  rolled  in  amplitude  of  flesh 
From  one  to  other  of  her  brood, 
Asweat  with  love  and  packing  food. 
"Here,  Jakey,  come  and  lif  dis  pile; 
Don't  go  yourself  away  a  mile, 
Stay  wid  your  pa  and  help  to  pull 
Dat  trunk,  for  it  is  plenty  full. 

Here,  Bruder  Abe,  you're  high  and  strong 
To  push  your  gran'pa's  chair  along. 
Now  go  him  slow  or  you  make  wrong. 
Vere's  Zolomons  ?     Vot  for  you  vait  ? 
I  tells  you  keep  dat  puggy  straight. 
Der  papy!     She  is  pack  inside; 
Now  give  your  little  sister  ride. 
Don't  look  aroun',  but  mind  your  feet. 
How  much  times  must  I  tole  you  so  ? 
You  mischief  poy,  now  dare  she  go! 
You  spills  mine  papy  in  der  street!" 

"O  God  of  Israel!"  groaned  the  sire, 
"  Found  Father  Abram  once  a  fire  ? 
Had  Yacob  in  der  vilderniss 
Pulled  ever  such  a  load  like  this  ?" 


HOW  WE  WENT  OUT 


From  puffy  pores  the  sweat  oozed  out, 
For  he  was  greasy,  short,  and  stout. 

"You  look  just  like  those  pack  mules,  Jim, 

When  we  came  down  from  Washbowl  Rim;" 

The  grips  were  strapped  all  over  him. 

"All  right,  my  girl,  you  can't  say  much 

About  appearances  and  such; 

Give  me  another  pack  before 

I  wedge  you  through  the  big  front  door. 

You  are  so  trussed  up  with  these  things 

You  cannot  spread  your  angel  wings, 

But  you're  an  angel  and  dead  game; 

Let's  hit  the  trail  in  search  of  fame." 

"O!  hush,  you  boy,  it  is  a  crime 

To  joke  at  such  an  awful  time. 

Our  home!     How  can  we  let  it  go! 

Here  Eddy  died  —  O  Jim,  you  know " 

"Don't  cry,  old  girl;  if  I  break  up 
I  might  collapse  that  painted  cup. 
The  mines  at  Washbowl  still  aie  rich; 
Oh,  luck,  we'll  get  the  diamond  hitch." 
Whence  but  from  guardian  angel's  power 
Come  cheer  and  courage  in  such  hour  ? 


28 


HOW  WE  WENT  OUT 


Guiseppi  swore  this  was  not  Rome; 
He  sweat,  he  wept,  and  thought  of  home 
On  Tiber's  bank,  but  quite  forgot 
That  sometimes  there  the  meals  were  not 
As  frequent  as  the  classic  shade. 
Nor  was  the  bundle  he  had  made 
At  leaving  Rome  too  great  to  bear. 
Of  goods  to-day,  if  he'd  been  there 
How  easy  he'd  have  dragged  his  share. 

He  met  the  barber,  old  Francois; 
They  lauded,  in  their  two  patois, 
The  beauties  of  the  old  countrie, 

But  chose  to  burn  and  still  be  free. 
I 

"Now,  Biddy,  give  yourself  a  hunch 
And  get  the  childer  in  a  bunch, 
The  soldier  orthers  us  to  go." 
Now  Biddies  argue  well,  you  know, 
And  Paddy  had  a  bad  half  hour 
Explaining  military  power; 


HOW  WE  WENT  OUT 


29 


And  not  until  appeared  once  more 

A  gun  which  seemed  to  fill  the  door, 

Its  dreaded  threat  would  she  obey; 

"O  Pat,  begorra  is  the  day 

I  left  ould  Ireland  for  you, 

As  granny  said,  i'  faith  'tis  thrue." 

When  she  begun,  it  was  a  whirl, 
She  loaded  down  each  boy  and  girl; 
Hitched  up  to  go-carts  full  of  duds, 
They  pulled  and  frisked  like  Shetland  studs 

She  harnessed  Pat  to  homemade  fills 
And  pushed  behind  to  cross  the  hills. 
"  And  is't  to  lave  the  dare  ould  place!" 
She  cried.     "O  Mary,  full  of  grace! 
Mother  o'  God,  look'down  the  day! 


HOW  WE  WENT  OUT 


Pat,  mind  the  childer," —  and  away 

Within  the  church's  toppling  door 

One  precious  moment  on  the  floor 

She  told  her  beads  with  Aves  o'er. 

That  church,  fire-doomed!     Her  prayer  its  last! 

O  faith  God-blest  for  ages  past! 

An  auto  piled  with  silken  pufFs 

And  glittering  Oriental  stuffs 

Drove  down  upon  the  sand,  wave-damp, 

Seeking  in  haste  a  midnight  camp. 

A  group  of  Chinamen  was  near 

Each  man  an  Oriental  seer, 

Calm  in  his  fatalistic  cheer. 

With  rice-bag  parcels  banked  around, 

They  stood  or  squatted  on  the  ground. 

Quick  spoke  the  leader  of  the  crew, 

"My  boys!  you  like  they  helpee  you  ?" 

"Thanks,  John,  these  ladies  are  so  cold;" 

The  stranger  said,  and  offered  gold; 

"  Me  helpee  you,  no  likee  pay; 

Me  alle  same  white  man  to-day." 

Then  with  their  deft,  long-fingered  hands, 

They  improvised  upon  the  sands 

A  tent  of  Persian  prayer-cloths  made 

With  priceless  rugs  for  carpet  laid; 

A  couch  of  fluffy  pillows  piled, 

Those  heads  to  doubtful  rest  beguiled. 


HOW  WE  WENT  OUT 

When  morning  dawned,  red-flushed  but  chill, 

Pulses  were  slow  and  voices  still; 

Within  the  tent  all  cheer  had  died; 

A  squeaky  treble  piped  outside, 

"Madam,  she  likee  bowl  of  rice  ? 

I  think  she  find  him  belly  nice." 

Fluffy  and  white  each  kernel  stood, 

A  thing  alone,  a  steaming  food, 

Cooked  by  this  wrinkled  Chinaman, 

Cooked  as  Celestials  only  can. 

The  native  dames  were  unsurprised, 

The  Eastern  ladies  recognized 

A  yellow  angel,  but  disguised. 


31 


"  That  church,  fire-doomed  !    Her  prayer  its  last" 


FRANCISCA  DILIGENTE 

May  to  August,  1906 

No  more  ''Indifferent  to  Fate 

She  sits  beside  the  Golden  Gate;" 

But  casts  about  with  watchful  eyes 

If  Diligence  perchance  surprise 

Some  wandering  relief  supplies; 

We  thought  we  had  no  public  squares 

But  she  has  found  them  everywheres; 

They  showed  up  quick  with  army  tents 

And  shacks  and  cooking  implements; 

While  from  a  bread  line  improvised 

Good  things  she  duly  authorized, 

With  life  no  longer  simplified 

To  coffee  and  a  bacon  side. 

She  mothers  well  these  refuge  camps; 

And  watches  all  the  flickering  lamps. 

Patrols  guard  them  till  morning  breaks, 

These  homeless  folk  from  fire  and  quakes. 

South  Market  Street  in  peace  abides 

Indefinite  upon  the  sides 

Of  hilly  parks  whose  sacred  green 

Had  never  such  despoiling  seen. 

In  vain  the  neighbors  may  protest 

That  this  continuance  is  no  jest, 

For  mighty  ones  serenely  say 

"These  camper  folk  have  come  to  stay;" 

While  vicious  wags,  "Ah,  ha!     The  boats 

Political  are  steered  by  votes!" 

She  gives  them  tent-schools  every  day; 

The  bands  for  them  on  Sunday  play; 

Sermons  and  hymns,  each  to  his  mind, 

Assorted  here  the  pious  find. 


FRANCISCA  DILIGENTE 

A  table  d'hote  she  has  essayed 
Beneath  the  park  trees'  ready  shade; 
Till  those  who  toil  for  bread  and  cheese 
Have  sometimes  envied  refugees. 
Who  would  attack  a  pile  cf  brick 
When  soup  was  waiting  hot  and  thick  ? 
Who  likes  the  mortar-laden  breeze 
While  seats  are  empty  under  trees  ? 
And  yet,  her  naughty  children  cried: 
"O  Ma,  such  eggs!     They  ain't  half  fried." 
Hear  that,  ye  hapless  ones  who  pay 
And  humbly  take  what  comes  your  way. 
Ingratitude  was  such  surprise 
That  poor  Francisca  wiped  her  eyes, 
And  thought  cf  her  reduced  supplies; 
Not  being  learned  in  landlord  lore 
Of  showing  grumblers  to  the  door. 

Far  from  indifferent,  of  late 

She  oftentimes  consults  with  Fate 

In  watchings  round  the  Golden  Gate. 


33 


"  These  were  a  honeymooning  pair  and  found  nrst  housekeeping  no  joke  " 

THE  SIMPLE  LIFE— ON  SIDEWALKS 

April,  1906 

A  lady,  dainty,  young,  and  fair, 
Was  cocking  in  the  open  air; 
She  wore  a  sweater  for  a  waist 
Her  Easter  hat  her  head  begraced, 
Her  husband  —  also  with  a  hat, 
A  silken  tile, —  demurely  sat 
Coatless  upon  the  curb,  his  feet 
Adorned  the  gutter  cf  the  street. 
Their  stove  was  but  a  pile  of  bricks 
Flung  down  by  recent  chimney  tricks 
Of  taking  headers  through  the  air; 


34 


THE  SIMPLE  LIFE  —  ON  SIDEWALKS  35 

These  were  a  honeymooning  pair 

And  found  first  housekeeping  no  joke; 

Her  eyes  were  streaming  with  the  smoke, 

The  while  the  sputtering  ham  she  fried; 

The  chips  he  diligently  plied 

To  flames  that  blew  four  ways  at  once; 

He  softly  swore  he  was  a  dunce 

Who  never  built  a  stove  before; 

"My  love/'  he  cried,  "it  needs  a  door." 

And  then  a  moment  all  went  well, 

W7hile  west  winds  had  a  lucid  spell; 

" Now  hurry,  Jack,  while  things  are  hot; 

You  take  the  pet 

I've  get  the  pans.     There  come  patrols, 

You'd  best  stamp  cut  these  burning  coals." 

Then  up  the  front  steps  they'd  run, 

Laughing  as  if  such  life  were  fun. 

The  life  indoors  was  simpler  still 

And  all  day  long  a  midnight  chill 

Wrapped  her  like  hydropathic  sheet; 

She  went  cutdoors  to  warm  her  feet; 

No  spark  upon  the  hearthstone  cheered, 

For  if  a  curl  of  smoke  appeared, 

A  bayonet  six  feet  long  or  more 

Came  flashing  through  the  opened  door. 

And  water  was  a  luxury  rare 

To  be  conserved  with  greatest  care, 

For  when  Jack  brought  it  from  afar, 

Where  things  escaped  the  recent  jar, 

To  heat  it  for  her  selfish  use 

Were  of  his  kindness  and  abuse. 

The  evenings  were  in  simple  life 

Devoid  of  interesting  strife. 

If  through  the  streets  they  took  a  turn, 

Because  indoors  no  lights  could  burn, 

The  omnipresent  khakis  said, 

"'Tis  time  good  folks  were  all  in  bed;" 

The  simple  life  at  night  was  dark 

For  if  escaped  one  little  spark 

From  hidden  candle  after  eight, 

There  came  a  rattling  at  the  gate, — 

"  Put  out  that  light! "  a  stern  voice  cried. 

"All  right,"  he  amiably  replied. 

(They  thought  to  have  a  little  game 

And  drew  the  curtains  for  the  same.) 

He  tried  to  imitate  the  mouse, 

But  tumbled  things  about  the  house 

Till  echos  rang,  for  every  chair 

Seemed  placed  just  right  to  makejiim  swear. 


THE  SIMPLE  LIFE  —  ON  SIDEWALKS 


Against  the  door  he  bumped  his  head 
Then  tumbled  crossways  into  bed. 
It  was  a  morning's  task  to  find 
The  garments  he  had  cast  behind. 

You  teachers  try  this  simple  life 
You  call  "devoid  of  nervous  strife." 
See  how  you  feel  the  soul's  spent  wings 
Flutter  amid  such  simple  things. 
See  how  the  dress,  by  spirit  fire 
Is  sublimated  from  desire,  — 
That  lust  for  comfort  of  the  flesh; 
Mark  me,  you'll  know  yourselves  afresh. 


More  advanced  housekeeping 


THE  SIMPLE  LIFE  — ON  SIDEWALKS 

This  gleeful  couple  did  their  best 

To  jollify  the  long-drawn  test, 

But  daily  trial  recognized 

—  By  moonlight  they  philosophized  - 

That  life  somewhat  more  civilized 

Was  wcrth  the  burdens  it  disguised. 


37 


Making  the  best  of  it 


THE  SIMPLE  LIFE— IN  TENTS 

Ten  thousand  khaki  tents  or  more 

The  parks'  green  hillsides  scattered  o'er 

To  the  idealist  might  seem 

Idyllic  as  a  shepherd's  dream. 

As  landscape  gardening,  they're  not  bad; 

Worse  picnic  places  may  be  had; 

As  summer  camps  a  month  or  more 

One  may  endure  the  flapping  door 

And  drafts  that  sweep  acrcss  the  floor; 

The  dust  and  cdcrs  in  the  clcthes 

To  tent  flaps  pinned  in  swinging  rowrs; 

Wall  shadows  cast  by  careless  lamps 

Betraying  secrets  to  the  camps; 

As  habitations  to  endure 

They  should  be  studied  for  a  cure. 

The  simple  life  in  them  pursued 

Proves  both  disquieting  ard  crude; 

That  which  in  art  is  picturesque, 

For  living  proves  a  coarse  burlesque. 


THE  SIMPLE  LIFE  — IN  CLUBS 

April,  1906 

From  various  junketings  with  fate 

Six  club  men  sat  in  dreary  state; 

Millions  they'd  lost,  each  man  a  few, 

A  few  were  left  to  start  anew. 

"No  hard  luck  stories,  now,  ycu  boys" 

(Each  man  was  gray).     "Let's  tell  our  joys." 

A  deep  voice  growled,  "My  throat's  so  dry, 

There's  one  old  joy  I'd  like  to  try. 

You  see  those  tumblers  upside  down, 

And  not  a  lemon  in  the  town  ?" 

He  groaned  at  such  unnatural  woe 

Who'd  seen  unmoved  his  millions  go. 

One  sufferer  bounded  from  his  seat, 

Flew  down  the  stairs  as  light  and  fleet 

As  wings  of  youth  were  on  his  feet. 

For  this  hour  saved  from  fire  and  shock, 
An  office  stood  upon  the  dock. 
A  man  of  venerable  mien 
Writing  alone  could  there  be  seen; 

38 


THE  SIMPLE  LIFE  — IN  CLUBS  39 

And  thither  came  our  millionaire 
Familiar  and  mcst  debonair. 
"Say,  Mac,  these  fellows  at  the  club! 
You  know  they've  had  an  awful  rub." 

Behind  his  spectacles'  geld  rim 
Relaxed  a  bit,  Max'  visage  grim; 
Those  words  appealed  right  up  to  him. 
The  office  door  he  gently  locked, 
His  visitor  seemed  nothing  shocked. 
Respectable  and  quite  correct 
A  safe  stood  there;  who  would  suspect 
That  comfort,  contraband,  could  hide 
Within  its  little  black  inside  ? 
From  double  depths  all  cool  and  dark 
That  host  drew  forth  a  glinting  spark, 
The  which  his  eager  guest  received 
As  writ  of  life  to  the  reprieved. 
"Come  here,  you  love,"  he  softly  cried, 
"  My  coat's  got  loose  enough  to  hide 
"A  dozen  such.     Let's  take  a  ride." 
Then  forth  upon  the  deck  they  walked, 
These  Innocents  at  home,  and  talked 
With  manners  grave  and  dignified, 
How  life  must  be  more  simplified; 
On  reconstruction  well  discoursed, 
That  forces  must  be  reinforced, 
Until  they  reached  the  auto,  where 
The  cops  passed  by  with  guileless  air. 
Mac  whispered  then,  "Now  speed  that  road 
As  if  you  had  a  red  cross  load." 
What  general  or  potentate 
Triumphant  from  the  field  or  state, 
Could  with  this  hero  be  compared, 
This  dear  old  swell  who  loved  and  dared  ? 
And  when  he  set  that  bottle  down, 
Those  clubmen  seized  the  Bourbon  crown 
As  rebels  often  had  before. 
The  hero  was  ordained  to  pour 
Into  each  glass  the  precious  store. 
Reverent  they  watched  the  sacred  rite. 
Then  held  their  crystals  to  the  light, 
And  how  they  read  its  golden  glow, 
'Tis  the  elect  alone  can  know. 
They  passed  the  nectar  to  and  fro 
Beneath  each  expert  nostril's  play  - 
Delicious  test  of  its  bouquet; 


THE  SIMPLE  LIFE  —  IN  CLUBS 

So  lovers  revel  in  delay. 
And  then  a  solemn  moment  fell  — 
Each  glass  was  drained,  its  dainty  well 
A  heaven,  no  futile  pen  may  tell. 

The  cork  they  toasted  to  the  cheer 
And  hung  it  on  the  chandelier; 
Beribboned  there  it  swings,  the  first 
To  break  the  record  of  the  thirst. 


\ 


"  The  cork  they  toasted  to  the  cheer 
And  hunf  it  on  the  chandelier  " 


Simple  life  in  Bohemia 


"  That  martyr  ablaze  he  wigwagged  aloft" 

THE  REASON  WHY 

Up  and  down  the  face  of  Telegraph  Hill 

While  our  city  was  swept  by  flames, 
An  Italian  tore,  and  he  prayed  and  he  swore, 

And  he  called  all  his  saints  by  name. 

When,  deaf  or  afar,  they  answered  him  not, 

He  dissolved  into  filial  tears; 
In  the  red-black  sky  still  the  pyre  blazed  high 

Of  the  city  he'd  loved  for  years. 

Then  a  sudden  thought  lit  his  swarthy  face, 
"  The  Patron !     St.  Francis,  the  blest ! " 

In  relief  from  despair,  he  plunged  down  the  long  stair 
To  his  house  with  its  relic  chest. 
42 


THE  REASON  WHY  43 

Quoth  he,  as  a  banner  of  silk  he  unfurled, 

"This  is  Francis  Assisi's  hour; 
A  saint  of  such  fame  must  defend  his  name, 

Our  homes  he  must  save  by  his  power." 

That  banner  he  waved  that  Assisi  might  see, 

But  still  the  flames  rolled  on; 
"O  Francis!  behold  the  folk  and  the  gold!" 

But  by  morning  the  city  was  gone. 

All  night  he  had  borne  St.  Francis  on  high 

Frcm  ea~h  pcint  of  that  rampart-wall. 
"What's  the  use  of  a  saint!"  with  his  blasphemous  plaint 
He  collapsed,  Assisi  and  all. 

Next  day,  quite  limp  from  the  shock  to  his  faith, 

That  banner  he  found  where  it  lay 
On  a  roof,  with  the  face  staring  up  in  disgrace, 

Half  buried  in  ashes  of  gray. 

That  face !     "  Tis  Francis  of  Sales ! "  he  cried : 

"  O  Mother  of  God ! "  he  wailed ; 
"What's  the  patron  about  that  he  didn't  watch  out  ? 

Or  in  penance,  perhaps,  I  have  failed." 

"O  Francis  Asis!     How  did  Sales  get  in  ? 

'Tis  not  he  has  the  charge  of  our  town ; 
How  dare  a  saint  rob  a  saint  of  his  job 

And  let  all  the  houses  burn  down  ?" 

He  seized  the  stafFof  that  banner  defamed, 

As  anger  burst  forth  from  despair; 
"  If  this  Frenchman  likes  fire  he  shall  have  his  desire; 

San  Francisco's  fate  let  him  share." 

As  a  living  coal  dropped  down  at  his  feet 

To  its  sacrificial  flame, 
He  touched  the  fold  of  that  silk  and  gold, 

And  he  burned  it,  the  face  and  the  name. 

That  martyr  ablaze   he  wigwagged  aloft 

With  jeers  that  were  pious  complaints; 
For  another's  mistake,  Sales  dropped  at  the  stake, 

As  is  often  the  habit  of  saints. 

So  that's  why  the  City  of  Francis  was  burned; 

The  wrong  saint  was  called  to  defend. 
If  Assisi'd  been  there  he'd  have  heard  the  wild  prayer, 

And  mayhap  would  have  changed  the  end. 


FRANCISCA  GLORIOSA 

A  crown  on  her  head  and  triumphant,  Francisca  shall  mount  to  her  seat; 

Her  sceptre,  a  shaft  of  the  lightning,  all  enemies  under  her  feet; 

The  ocean  of  oceans  her  conquest,  the  nations  their  tribute  shall  bring 

To  her  ashes  ablocm  like  an  Eden,  the  home  cf  perpetual  Spring. 

And  the  Orient's  stores  of  the  ages  and  the  northland's  frozen  gold, 

Still  red  with  the  fires  of  Aurora,  where  it  burnt  on  her  altars  of  old, 

Shall  build  her  a  house  of  such  splendor  that  masters  of  progress  shall  own 

Her  a  queen  among  cities,  her  prowess,  that  spirit  sublimed  which  is  known 

To  the  souls  that,  like  metal  concentrate,  have  passed  through  the  crucible's 

test. 
Then  the  world  shall  unite  with  her  children  to  hail  her,   "Francisca   the 

Blest!" 


44 


Francisca  Gloriosa 


